True Beauty
by apathetic-obsessive
Summary: Basil loved Dorian when he was pure, but perhaps even more so when he was stained. Dedicated to blood.of.a.phoenix
1. Pure

**True Beauty**

Basil loved Dorian when he was pure, but perhaps even more so when he was stained.

~~~~~~~*****~~~~~~~

I am an artist, an admirer of all things beautiful, interpreter of the foreign and creator of the known. I see art, I make art, I am art. For an artist is nothing without his art and art is nothing without his artist. Essentially, we are one and the same. The art and the artist. And for all my life, I would study, chase after beauty; capture each fleeting moment, embedding it in my works. With each stroke I would solve and define, developing the subtle secrets into the everlasting surface of my canvas. And I would have it. All things beautiful preserved as an image, woven with my dedicated hands.

The hands of an artist.

And for all my life, I would be overcome. Again and again I would see the ultimate beauty, the most exquisite thing in existence. So delicately made, so elegantly presented. And I would worship it like a slave adoring his master, enraptured, until I found something better.

Until I found true beauty.

~~~~~~~*****~~~~~~~

It is often the irony of life that when one seeks to find, he may never chance upon his prize and yet when he stops, whether to rest or surrender his hopes, he will increase his likelihood and discover, with greatest shock, all that he had sought and perhaps even more.

And I, for one, had never dreamed of chancing upon Dorian Gray.

It was at some party or other, an important social gathering much like all others, that I found my definition of true perfection. I had neither sought nor wished to look, but fate had decided to play. I was talking to Lady Brandon, who holds conversations more on her side than mine, and I almost wished I wasn't. But she too, is a window, a venture into the world, an opportunity for knowledge and experience. And she was the one that led me to my muse.

I looked away from out tête-à-tête with so much heard and very little learnt. And I saw, what I first deemed, perhaps a mirage or illusion created by the passion of my insanity who, like all of me, is so shamelessly devoted to love and beauty and all the treasures of the world. And yet I, who so wholly devoted himself, who so fervently worshipped, could never hope to replicate, or perhaps even imagine such an image with my mind. It could be a creation only by God and all things so pure and virtuous never to grace our world.

Dorian Gray, perhaps not even twenty summers was an image made of light and nothing else. An angel carved from the purest white, shaded with the softest tones of gold, pink and blue, blended and held with the deepest red. So finely carved, so delicately shaped, he looked so perfect. He was perfection. And if looks were not all that could win you, there is much to be admired. Perhaps men, women and all things in existence would seek to castrate themselves before him, flooded with envy and raging jealousy that the Holy Father could bless a single creature with such gifts.

We spoke and he had the sweetest voice, tingling with laughter, joy and boyish charms that would not last, but transform, maturing into the deepest tones that men have ever heard. And the topics! Oh, if men were ever so bright, agreeable and charming, they could not reach what he had combined. With a naive innocence he would speak; sharp views and such eagerness to learn!

There was nothing that he had that would present even an attempt against him, and he stood there, all things pure and light, like an angel sent from the Lord.

Like a muse created for my rendition.

~~~~~~~*****~~~~~~~

It was with great pride and joy that I began to trap him, all his youth and beauty, into the immortality of my art. Into his portrait.

For days, weeks, months even, I had toiled, desperately, fanatically, like a raging lunatic over this portrait. And which each tender stroke, each gentle line, I had wished only to redefine in exactly the same terms. And for all my efforts, I would be satisfied with only a replica. Only a mirror, held in time, as my Picture of Dorian Gray.

But then I never saw him again, or hardly see him enough to count as seen. And he left.

With both himself and his Picture of Dorian Gray.

~~~~~~~*****~~~~~~~

Dedicated to blood(.)of(.)a(.)phoenix, my (wannabe) artist friend.

First attempt in this fandom, which I must say is looking rather pitiful. I hope this is slightly in character seeing as my Naruto fics definitely aren't, but these characters are dark enough without me tainting them. Not sure if it sounds alright, and isn't beta'd. Two chapters in total.

R & R please.


	2. Love

**True Beauty**

Basil loved Dorian when he was pure, but perhaps even more so when he was stained.

~~~~~~~*****~~~~~~~

An artist is perhaps the worst being the word 'lover' has ever been associated with. He is the player on a game of love and lust, charming the modest lover with gentle affection, serenading in the fullest tunes and swearing, with the greatest truths, of his whole-hearted love and devotion. He would appreciate every aspect, fault or not and compliment every action. And his tender lover would be so entranced by this seemingly endless dedication that they would soon throw themselves so completely into the relationship to be captured and left, within a tiny frame and remembered, only as a moment in the past. To be forgotten and still totally captivated.

I too am an artist and will proudly admit to being, perhaps one of the worst contestants in this romantic battlefield. Through my youth I have loved, lusted and left so many great subjects, so many wondrous scenes. They have captivated me and I had sworn my love. But I am an artist, I will never stay.

As a boy, I had promised my fidelity to the flowers in my mother's garden that had in turn, promise to bloom so beautifully for me. On a holiday soon after, I had a fling with the elder temples of Greece and Italy before settling with the lovely maids at my favourite castle, whom were always so eager to pose and present. But all were forgotten in the time it took to find something new, something fresh, something better. And my days were found searching and leaving with promiscuity worse than men in a gentleman's club with lovers spread across London. Until I met the perfect subject.

As terrible as it may be loving and leaving, it is perhaps even worse on a personal note, if I were the one loved and left. For I threw myself shamelessly, with all rationality fleeing upon the mere sight of my lover. And having never felt so maddened, so struck with unadulterated affection, my actions presented me as a lunatic, a madman. And this time, I was not the one who fled.

~~~~~~~*****~~~~~~~

When one is caught in a web, for instance one for a fish, escape is found and freedom is granted soon after the net is released and the fish itself would perhaps declare that it had never chanced upon a finer day. But when that net is one of love, or more accurately, obsession, freedom is undoubtedly one of the worst possibilities. The captive would tangle himself within the threaded confines, echoing pleas of love merely to be able to stay.

It so happened that when Dorian Gray were to release me, I would soon spin a web of my own mimicking him, attempting to delude myself of his presence. If I had painted him more, perhaps his image would substitute for his absence. If I recreate him, would mine be a better Dorian Gray?

It was ironic, that the longer I should live without him, the more I craved him. Will I never again relish the fresh starts and frivolous freedoms that God has bestowed on me along with my art?

~~~~~~~*****~~~~~~~

It is hideous, my form of escape, but with years suffering from such a fixation of a man I can barely see, hear or touch, I wish for nothing more but the end. Seven years have passed without him. Was it seven, or was it ten? But we have changed, as time often twists and distorts us for mere amusement hoping to waste away its eternity. I have changed, an old painter with more talent, more skill than I ever held from my youth. I have seen flowers wilt, temples crumble, maids age and retire, and soon I will see Dorian Gray, whose beauty and youth I have always worshipped and held in the highest esteem.

Soon, I will witness him too, old, weathered and withered with his beauty, charm and everything admirable gone. Along with my love. It is vile and disgusting to wish the death of a lover, even one of a stone-cold demeanour that would never reciprocate my affections, but I need my escape.

And hopefully, I no longer need him.

~~~~~~~*****~~~~~~~

It was past ten, rapidly moving towards eleven and well into the night. For hours I had been standing here, waiting patiently perhaps with unjust calmness and terrible eagerness to mourn the loss of my lover, perhaps more than the owner had.

In the grotesque civility of an Englishman, well adjusted to the modern gentleman, I had already planned to approach him under the pretence of a farewell, requesting a final boon and soon to be stealing away into the night with the last remanent of his past, of my obsession. And to Paris I should run. The city of lovers, the sanctuary of passion, the protector of insanity. And with shocking realisation and great anguish, I should settle and mourn, mourn for my loss for six months, dedicate myself so wholly to my lover!

And then joy! For I will have freed myself, buried my heart and recovered a stone, removed myself from his unconscious grasp. And no longer shall I be haunted with his vivid haunting beauty, no longer shall I feel the pains of unwanted affection. Soon, soon! They shall merely be a shadow of my thoughts, hidden deep within the cavern of my mind.

~~~~~~~*****~~~~~~~

A/N – I said two chapters, right? Well apparently I lied. A third coming up – rambled too much in this one, needed to cut it off. On the bright side though, my chapters can't get any shorter... I think.

Anyways, again dedicated for my beta blood(.)of(.)a(.)phoenix seeing as I may never finish my other fic for her. Oh and I promise _something_ will happen in the next chapter.

R & R please.


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